In
the stillness, which absorbed all but the beating of his heart, he heard
the dry tick, tick of a beech leaf falling. Those that still clung to
the sleek upper boughs were no more than a delicate yellow cloud or
glowing autumnal atmosphere suffusing the black bole of the tree with a
light of pure enchantment. He was surprised that anything so vaporous
and colorful should come from the same sap that circulated through the
bark and body of the thick tree itself. But then he reflected that,
after all, the crown and flame of Sam Dreed's life was Day Rackby.
Had she, perhaps, descended from that yellow cloud above her? Deep-water
Peter had a moment of that speechless joy which comes when all the doors
in the house of vision are flung open at one time.
His feet sank unheeded in a patch of mold. He saw now that her eye was
on the silent welling of a spring into a sunken barrel. She had one hand
curled about the rim. The arm was of touching whiteness against that
cold, black round, which faithfully reflected the silver sheen of the
flesh on its under parts. Red and yellow leaves, crimped and curled, sat
or drifted to her breath in the pool, as if they had been gaudy little
swans.
Suddenly the sun sent a pale shaft, tinctured with lustrous green,
through the hemlock shades.
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